by Mara Wells
Pulling into street parking across from her building, Carrie began the detail-oriented process of unpacking Oliver, Beckham, and the assorted child and dog accessories that traveled with them both. Chasing down a run-away chew toy and stuffing it in her purse, Carrie ran down her plan for the day: New client meeting first thing, then onto the downtown penthouse currently under renovation to check on the aurora marble and pearl glass bathroom tiles that were supposed to be installed yesterday, but that she suspected were not. This contractor had been nothing but problems—behind schedule every step of the way for no reason she could discern. It made her nervous. If this bathroom went well, she had a feeling the client would hire her to do the rest of the dwelling. If not, as she’d learned in the past, it’d be hard to collect final payment from an unhappy client. Home for a quick snack and snuggle with Oliver, and then off to a cocktail hour where she hoped to get some new leads on jobs.
Working for herself was a lot of hustle, but it was a lot better than the position at the large design firm she’d had while married to Lance. As her own boss, she was able to make her own schedule, decide with whom and how much she worked, and most importantly, make time for Oliver. Yes, she missed her steady paycheck and premier health benefits, but thankfully she and Oliver were healthy and doing fine on a low-cost health plan, and by hook or by crook, she was able to pay her bills.
“Here, let me help.” Gamma lifted Oliver out of his car seat and propped him on her hip. Carrie’s mom had recently turned fifty-two, but she sure didn’t look it. Dark hair dyed to silky auburn and cut in an easy-to-care for short bob with long bangs, she could easily pass for Oliver’s mom herself. “How’re you, Oli-Oli-oxen-free?”
Oliver laughed at the familiar nickname and gave his grandma a sloppy kiss on the cheek. “Don’t worry about him at all today, Carrie. I know you’ve got a lot going on. Oli and and I will be fine.”
“I know.” Carrie hefted the bag with Oliver’s snacks, board books, stuffed animals, and Beckham’s treats, extra leash, collapsible water bowl, and chew toys over her shoulder. The dang thing seemed to get heavier every day. Who needed a gym membership when you had a kid and a dog?
She led the way through the propped-open gate of their condo building, taking the right pathway through the front garden—a landscape of overgrown bougainvillea, lush liriope, and the piece de resistance: an enormous staghorn fern hanging off a gumbo-limbo tree. Honestly, she’d bought her condo primarily because of that nearly six-foot staghorn fern. It made her happy every time she walked to her front door, and Oliver enjoyed jumping to brush his fingers against the lower curling fronds.
At their door, Gamma fished a key out of the front pocket of her cargo pants, and Carrie relinquished the heavy bag to the bench she’d placed there for exactly that purpose. It also helped create the sense of a foyer in a space that was so small it had no business having a foyer. Originally a one-bedroom, she’d worked her contacts to move the kitchen opening to another wall so she could enclose the small dining room, creating a junior bedroom as the realtors called it.
“Who wants to wear his red dinosaur shirt today?” Gamma cooed while peeling Oliver out of his muddy dog park shirt. “And how about a bath first?”
“Beckham, too?” Carrie called, hopping down the short hallway to her bedroom on one foot while she took her cross trainers off the other. She landed sideways on her Queen bed, a decorating compromise between the King-size bed she’d wanted and the square footage of her bedroom. She toed off the other shoe. “And can it wait ‘til I grab a quick shower? I’ve got a client meeting in less than an hour.” One bathroom meant many such compromises. Her son could be dirty a few minutes longer. Didn’t exposure to germs help build immunity?
“Sure, we’ll have a little snack, won’t we?” Gamma’s voice faded as she walked into the kitchen. Carrie heard the refrigerator door open, then the click-click of Beckham’s toe nails on her hardwood floors. He was ever-optimistic about the refrigerator, and with good reason. Even if no one specifically meant to give the dog treats, Oliver’s eating habits—namely, his ability to get as much food smeared in his hair and on the floor as he got in his mouth—meant there was always plenty of clean up duty for the dog.
Carrie was just stepping out of the shower when she heard the soft ping of her phone. She wrapped a towel around her hair and shrugged into her short, satin robe.
We need to talk.
Carrie didn’t need caller ID to know it was Lance. She’d changed her address book after her divorce from Lance Donovan and the picture of him stuffing wedding cake in his mouth to Don’t Answer and a picture of the yellow and black circles used to label toxic chemicals. She knew who it was, and she didn’t have time for drama right now. She checked the time. Less than half an hour now to put her business face on and meet Dimitri Orlov. If all went well today, she’d be drawing up plans for a redesign of his three restaurants. And if she got the job, she wouldn’t have to worry about income for the next year. What a relief it would be to take a break from the constant scramble for new clients. So Lance could wait. It’s not like Oliver’s paternity was some kind of emergency, and the kind of conversation they needed to have couldn’t be rushed. She needed this job, for Oli’s sake as much as her own. She would deal with Lance once Orlov signed her very detailed contract.
She slicked back her hair—no time for a blow-dry—into a long, low pony and secured it with a jeweled barrette. She’d mastered the five-minute face but took an extra two-minutes for eyeliner. After slicking on her favorite Mac Ruby Woo lipstick, she grabbed her portfolio bag, gave Oliver and her mom a quick kiss goodbye, and keys in hand, swung open her front door.
“Lance?” Carrie almost slammed the door in his face. Almost. Her fingers flexed on the brass doorknob, knuckles whitening. “How do you even know where I––did you follow us from Fur Haven?”
Lance took a step forward like he was going to mosey on in, uninvited. She blocked him with her body, a move that brought them close enough she could feel the heat of him. Lance’s body temperature ran higher than hers, a fact she’d appreciated on cold nights when she could roll them into a blanket burrito and steal all that delicious warmth. She shoved down the snuggle-rich memories, and her ill-timed awareness of him, and scowled. “Answer my question.”
“Public records.” He waved his phone at her, a phone that was two generations newer than hers but looked twice as beat up. He’d always been hard on phones, going through Lifeproof cases faster than she could order them on Amazon. Too bad their marriage hadn’t been Lifeproofed; she wouldn’t be scrambling now to avoid justifying some pretty unjustifiable behavior on her part.
“Uh huh.” She caught her lower lip between her teeth and tasted her own lipstick. Damn it. Now she’d have to reapply it in the car, never the best idea with such a dark red. If she’d learned anything from watching her parents fight, it was to be on the offensive. “Still creepy. Extra creepy.”
“What? That I found your deed in public records? It’s not that hard. They are, you know, public.” He shoved his phone in his back pocket, and she hated that she couldn’t look away from the way the movement tightened his pale blue t-shirt across his pecs. If anything, Lance looked even more built than when they’d been together. He might own his own company, but he’d never been the kind of manager who could stay off a job site. Looked like he still didn’t––the way his t-shirt hugged him tight enough to hint at the hard abs underneath spoke to hundreds of hours of physical labor.
“Comforting.” She smacked her lips, hoping the color would even out on its own. Goodness, it was hard not to stare at those abs. “You should’ve tried my phone instead. I don’t have time for you right now.”
Lance snorted. “Some things don’t change.” He leaned a forearm against the door frame, his body inches from hers, that heat moving over her, through her. “But you owe me an explanation. Big time.”
An excellent point. She
swam through the dizzying number of hormones clouding her brain, fought past the urge to step into arms and soak him up. She couldn’t let him see how his nearness affected her. No weakness allowed.
“You’re right, and I will explain.” She pushed her carefully manicured pointer finger into the center of his chest with a tap tap meant to annoy him away from noticing how her breath hitched when she touched him. “But now is not that time. I’m meeting a new client.”
“Different year, same song. People really don’t change, do they, Carrie?” Lance’s head tilted so his temple rested against the frame. His blue eyes bored into her, and it was all she could do to hold his gaze. In the first years of their marriage, she’d loved seeing herself reflected in his deep blues—smart, sexy, sensual. She’d had all the S words going for her. She still saw S words in his eyes, but it sure didn’t feel the same. Suspicious, skeptical, scornful.
Let him think whatever he wanted about her. If her silly heart bruised, so what? As long as he was mad at her, he wasn’t thinking about Oliver.
“You’re making me late.” She kept pushing with her finger, like drilling through granite, until he took a step back and then another one. “Text me. We’ll make an appointment.”
“So civilized.” His snarl was not.
She removed her finger from his chest and clicked the door shut behind her. “I hope we can be.”
He pulled out his phone and messaged her: Now is good for me.
She kept walking toward her SUV, but she returned the text before climbing into her Chevy: I’ll check my calendar and get back to you.
You have twenty-four hours before I call an attorney.
Carrie’s silly, bruised heart pounded hard in her chest. He wouldn’t, would he? She couldn’t take the chance, not with Oliver at stake. When you put it like that, you sweet talker…
She let the three typing dots bounce for an ominous few seconds before sending the rest. Coffee? 2 p.m.?
He sent her a thumbs up, and she added the first place that came to mind: The Coffee Pot Spot?
Her time, her place, her rules. She wouldn’t let Lance Donovan bully his way into her son’s life. But she did owe him an explanation and an apology. Luckily, she’d had three years to rehearse her speech.
Tail for Two
On sale July 2020!
About the Author
© Michael Crumpton
Mara Wells loves stories, especially stories with kissing. She lives in Hollywood, Florida, with her family and two rescue dogs: a poodle mix named Houdini Beauregarde and Sheba Reba Rita Peanut, a Chihuahua mix. To find out more, you can sign up for her newsletter at marawellsauthor.com.
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